Searching for Starlight
by Raskol
Summary: Marauder era. A werewolf, he has no friends, no hope, no future. That is, until an owl arrives for him one morning, bearing an envelope… The story of Remus John Lupin and his years at Hogwarts.
1. Storm Passing

_**Year One: Dawn**_

Branches whipping at his face, scratching at his legs, clawing at his arms. Sweat trickling down his forehead, mingling with the tears streaming from his eyes. His lungs screamed for air; gasps tore through his raw throat. An excruciating stitch in his side and damp loam beneath his bloody feet, between his toes. He cried as he stepped on something sharp and hard, but he didn't stop. He couldn't. Keep running, keep running, keep running The thought repeated over and over again in his mind like a mantra, a ward against evil. Keep running…

The moon was full, a lone and ghostly specter rising over the forest to sit in the starless black. Silver light stabbed through the skeletal trees, probing the darkness for his small frame, and a howl shivered through the woods, an incisive blade that penetrated his soul. He panicked. Eyes cast around for a place to hide. But there was nothing—nowhere where he wouldn't be found. He choked down a sob as he continued his wild flight through the darkness.

Over his own harsh and ragged breathing, he somehow heard the dry crackling of leaves and dead twigs behind him. A bestial snarl beat against his ears. Don't look back, don't look back, don't look back. He already knew who – no, not _who_ but _what_ – would be there hounding him: a monster with sharp claws and yellow teeth and stinking breath and golden eyes and—

"_Run!"_

—a guttural voice filled with loathing.

A fallen log sprawled on the ground before him. He didn't see it until it was too late. His bare knees collided with the rough wood. Went down headfirst, shins scraping against splintery bark. His hands shot forward to catch him, palms digging into the forest floor. Warm and slick blood dribbling over ripped skin. Ignoring his protesting muscles, he shoved himself up, started running again.

Keep running, keep going. But suddenly, he came up against a rock face. Stern and unyielding. The moonlight threw the jagged edges into sharp relief. He collapsed against the cool stone. Caught. Like a rabbit in a hunter's trap. Helpless, he sank to the ground, his face dry. Numb. Unbelieving. He had stopped crying. Had run out of tears.

A shadow fell over him. Another chilling howl burst forth from the prowling shape. He cowered against the cliff, knees drawn up to his chest. Let his head hang forward. He didn't want to look, didn't want to. He was going to die. He knew it; the truth of it rang through his heart like a sliver of ice.

"No," he whispered, his voice weak and tremulous.

Close your eyes, close your ears. Pretend.

Agony erupted in a shoulder. Burning knives burrowing into his flesh. Then a wave of coolness. He sank into it eagerly.

Darkness.

**Chapter I: Storm Passing**

It was raining, grey drops pattering against the windowpane, sounding for all the world like a hundred drummers beating on a hundred snare drums. A flicker of lightning lanced across the gloomy sky, and the wet streets below glowed briefly with a sudden intensity. There was a faint rumble of thunder.

Remus John Lupin, sitting on a battered stool, stared forlornly out of his foggy bedroom window, his cheek resting against the chilled glass as he listened to the howl of the wind. After reading for hours and hours to pass the time, he had finally decided to just _wait._ What he was waiting for, he wasn't entirely sure, but it gave him a sense of purpose, and a sense of purpose was exactly what he needed right now, what with his future being unclear and thoroughly dark.

The letter, after all, had not come.

He knew for a fact that the owls had been sent out three days ago. While he normally didn't eavesdrop on his parents, he had overheard them arguing with each other yesterday evening after he had gone to bed. They obviously weren't aware of the fact that the walls and floors of the house were very thin, and that their son was a light sleeper.

"The bloody letter didn't come, Silvia!" his father had cried. "And I even checked the mailbox! There's nothing—_nothing_! Hogwarts sent out the letters the day before yesterday! It should've gotten here by now!"

"Calm down, Maris! Just calm down!"

"Calm down? How can I calm down? I'm here to ensure a decent future for my son! And how can I do that—"

"A future? _A future_?" his mother had said, disbelieving. "Didn't you say that it would be difficult for him to get a job _regardless_ of his education? Didn't—"

"The Ministry may have relaxed their laws by then, and when they do—"

"You mean _if_ they do. And anyways, there are plenty of other jobs he—"

"Muggle jobs, you mean!"

"Yes, _Muggle_ jobs! He doesn't have—"

"He's a wizard—he doesn't belong—"

"Nonsense! He's eleven, he can still learn!"

"But it's not safe! I told you before! We're at war; with Voldemort and his Death Eaters running around, the safest place he can be at is Hogwarts!"

"And why would this _Voldemort_ come swooping down on this house in the first place? For god's sake, Maris…"

And on and on. When they had finally stopped, it had been close to two o' clock in the morning. But Remus had not drifted off to sleep; he had lain there, fully awake, staring at the shadowy ceiling as ropes of despair coiled themselves around his heart. His owl had not come. He wouldn't be going to Hogwarts…

Which was why he was here, sitting in his room and gazing out the window. What _would_ he do? he wondered. His mother was an accountant; surely she could teach him something about _her_ job…

"Remus?" His mother's voice broke through his musings.

"Yes, Mum?" Remus said listlessly without taking his eyes off the sodden lawn outside. Stalks bending over under the weight of the water, the flowers looked like they were drowning.

"I'm going out to do some shopping. Want to come?"

"No, thanks. I think I'll stay home."

There was a pause as Remus heard footsteps ascending the creaky staircase. He turned just in time to see his mother's tall silhouette against the doorframe before she proceeded into his room, placing her hands delicately upon his thin shoulders. Her hanging hair tickled his cheek.

"Are you feeling okay? You seem to be getting thinner. And you're so bony!" She squeezed a shoulder.

"I'm fine, Mum—really."

He looked up at her and saw her frowning, but she quickly composed herself. "Sure you don't want to come?" She winked at him. "We can pick up some ice cream along the way."

"Yeah, I'm sure." Remus gave her a wan smile.

"All right, then," she said, sighing as she removed her slender hands. "But be careful. Don't—"

"I know, I know. Don't answer the doorbell unless it's someone I know, don't leave the house, don't pick up the phone—I know it all already, Mum. You don't have to worry about me. I'll be fine. And anyways, Dad'll be home soon."

He could've sworn he saw her lips tighten at his last statement, but it must've been his imagination, because it was gone already. "If you're sure…"

"Yeah. I'm just feeling a bit tired. Think I'll catch up on my sleep."

"Okay. See you in a few," and she left the room. Remus went back to watching the rain. The garage door below his bedroom gave a particularly nasty screech as it jerked open, and he saw his mother's car back out of the driveway, smoke piling out of the exhaust pipe. Another screech as the garage door closed. The car disappeared down the road.

He didn't move for perhaps another fifteen minutes, and then he got up. He had a sudden urge to walk outside in the rain, despite what he had promised his mother earlier. Maybe the fresh air would do him some good. Grabbing a jacket from atop his bed, he pulled it on, descended the stairs, opened the front door, and stepped out onto the front step of his parents' house. Droplets of water immediately pelted his skin, and in a matter of seconds, he was completely drenched.

But the stormy atmosphere did indeed liven him up a bit, strangely enough. He could feel his spirits rising as he walked down the street with the smell of rain in his nose. Never mind the fact that it was cold and wet. He liked the touch of the rain against his body. It felt cleansing, purifying, and, after all he'd been through, he needed to feel cleansed and purified.

For Remus John Lupin was a werewolf.

Bitten six years ago, Remus could safely say that he still remembered _everything_—the stench of dirty fur, the flashing yellow canines, the hate-filled pupils, the pain as the werewolf bit his right shoulder. Uncomfortably, he shrugged as a twinge shot up the old wound. Memories seemed to trigger a sort of phantom pain, and it didn't help that he had nightmares about the incident; night after night, he found himself staring up at the same malevolent figure, and when he awakened, his shoulder would be throbbing like mad and he would feel as contaminated as it was possible to feel. Like there was a monster inside his body trying to break free. And there was, for all intents and purposes. The cruel truth did not make him feel the least bit better.

It was worst at full moon. His monthly transformations were, to say it politely, agonizing. His parents locked him in the cellar and chained him to a wall so that he couldn't escape. And what was worse was that he couldn't remember anything. He always came to his senses with a feeling of dread. Had he broken free? Were his parents dead? Was that their blood on his hands? Thankfully that had never happened, but it was still a strong possibility, and he was thoroughly scared of himself. His father had reassured him that nothing like that would ever occur but what if, what if…

Remus stopped. His feet had carried him to the local playground, which was now deserted and swamped in mud and water. He weaved his way between the slide and the swings and the seesaw and sat down on the rusted carousal, hands between his knees, gazing at his reflection in a rippling puddle before him.

Ragged light-brown hair plastered to his forehead and cheeks by the rain, pale skin and shadows under his grey eyes. His mother had called him bony, and bony he was. He decided that he looked rather unhealthy. A smile crossed his lips. No wonder his parents were so overprotective of him; he appeared about ready to collapse.

But his smile faded as the problem at hand wriggled its way back to the front of his mind. His future…what would he do now that he couldn't go to Hogwarts? His education was most likely more than a little behind. He had been home-schooled by his father for as long as he could remember, and not on arithmetic and science and all the other "regular" subjects that they taught at Muggle school. He had been taught other things, things about magic and wizards and witches—all of which was good and jolly and all but would probably not be applicable to the Muggle world. Granted, his mother had made sure he knew _something,_ but was it enough?

He heaved a heavy sigh as he reviewed his (dismal) life. His mother was a Muggle and his father was a wizard. He was raised in a Muggle neighborhood, but he was being home-schooled by his father in the arts of magic (somehow his father found enough time outside of work to do this during the normal school year). He had no friends. He was a werewolf. And, according to his father's books that he had gone through this morning, werewolves were prohibited from going to Hogwarts and every other wizarding school out there (if there were any more) in Britain by some such decree issued by the Ministry of Magic years ago. What to do, what to do?

Resting his elbows on his knees and his chin in the crook formed by his hands, he bent over and looked out at the gloomy world. Such a harsh place to live. If he had been anything but human, he would've died ages ago. Survival of the fittest, he thought darkly, blowing some water off his lower lip. He supposed that his parents could send him to public school now. It couldn't be _that_ bad; maybe he'd even make a few friends, come to think of it…

For how long he sat there reflecting on his past and his unpromising future, he didn't know. But all of a sudden, it had begun to grow dark and the rain had slowed to a drizzle. Gathering himself up, he sprinted back down the street, sneakers squelching noisily on the lawns. By the time he made it back home, the streets were filled with pitch-black shadows that not even the streetlamps could dispel.

And his father had not returned, if he could judge by the stillness within the house.

Remus opened the front door and checked the grandfather clock. Right, his father was overdue by about an hour, and his mother was still out shopping, which wasn't much of a surprise he had to admit. Shutting the door, he crept upstairs into his room, changed out of his wet clothes and into some dry ones, and lay down on his bed, head cushioned by his thin arms. Just as he was dozing off, an abrupt _crack_ and pounding footsteps startled him awake. Remus jumped out of bed just as his father burst into his room.

The first thing Remus was aware of was that his father was beaming at him. The second thing was that he was now being held in a tight hug, swathed in black wizard robes. What was going on?

"Dad?" he said once he had been released. "Wha—"

"You've been accepted into Hogwarts!" his father said, his usually weary eyes shining with exuberance.

Remus stared at his father, hardly daring to believe him. "But I didn't get a letter."

"Doesn't matter, your letter should be getting here tomorrow! I had a chat with Dumbledore—wonderful man, absolutely wonderful, Headmaster of Hogwarts—and he agreed to enroll you! Of course, there'll be certain precautions that must be taken…"

But Remus didn't hear the rest of what his father was saying. Blood was rushing in his ears, and his heart pounded with a fierce joy. Hogwarts—he had been accepted! It was a miracle come true! Suddenly, his future seemed much brighter.

Gazing out the window, he realized that the storm had passed. Stars winked brightly overhead, glittering diamonds strewn across black velvet.


	2. Absurdity

**Chapter II: Absurdity**

Remus's initial burst of happiness was soon swept away by a wave of anxiety as he came down for breakfast the following morning. Had it been a dream? Was it real? What if Dumbledore had lied to his father just to get away? Remus was sure that Dumbledore was a busy man; after all, being the Headmaster of such a prestigious wizarding school must be a difficult job. And really—who was Dumbledore to ignore the decree of the Ministry of Magic? It was an actual law that forbid werewolves to go to school, not merely a cheap statement that could be thrown out the window like trash.

But his worries proved to be unfounded. As soon as Remus sat down for breakfast with his family, he heard a light tap on the window. His mother and father smiled at him, though he thought he discerned a tenseness in his mother's shoulders that hadn't been there before. Turning around, he saw a ragged barn owl fluttering haphazardly around outside, trying to perch on the windowsill; it was clutching something in its beak. With a glance at his parents, he crossed to the window, unlatched it, and slid it open. He was almost knocked over as the bird flew into his face before landing on the countertop and fluffing up its feathers. Behind him, a chair scraped. He heard a gasp and a soft murmur from his father: "It's all right, Silvia."

With trembling fingers, Remus pulled an envelope from the owl's beak, after which the owl gave a very dignified hoot and departed from the house. Turning the envelope over in his hand, he brought it back to the table. It was made of a rough type of yellow parchment that reminded him of old and dusty books, and there must've been several sheaves of parchment inside as well, judging from its remarkable thickness and heaviness. Written in emerald-green ink was the address:

_Mr. R. J. Lupin_  
_The Kitchen_  
_12 Ketton Crossing_  
_Hartsford_  
_Berkshire_

He broke the seal – made of purple wax and bearing a coat of arms that displayed a lion, an eagle, a badger, and a snake surrounding a large letter H – and, sitting down, pulled the contents out of the envelope.

There were three pages inside, all composed of the same yellow parchment as their covering. He unfolded the topmost one he held, and his eyes were immediately drawn to the elaborate heading that proclaimed proudly, "Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry". The name of the current Headmaster Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore and a list of the wizard's various achievements were printed beneath the title. Remus dragged his eyes away from the words "Supreme Mugwump" to the body of the letter and read:

_Dear Mr. Lupin,_

_It gives us great pleasure to announce that you have been admitted into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. A list of necessary books and equipment for the year is enclosed, as are directions regarding your monthly transformations. Read over these, especially the latter, carefully. If you have any questions, send them by owl before the start of term._

_The school year will begin on September 1. The Hogwarts Express will leave on that day at eleven o'clock from platform nine and three-quarters at King's Cross station in London. Your ticket is enclosed in this envelope._

_We eagerly await your arrival._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Minerva McGonagall _

_Deputy Headmistress_

He blinked and realized that his eyes had teared up while reading the letter. Looking up at his father, he smiled.

"Thanks, Dad."

---

As the days passed by and the end of August crept nearer, Remus waited patiently for the chance to accompany his father to Diagon Alley—and when it came, he found that he had got himself into a spot of trouble.

"Come on, Remus! We need to go to Diagon Alley to buy your supplies!"

"Hold on!" Remus shouted from his room. He frantically grabbed a book and flipped through its pages. Not there! Another book, then—but it yielded the same results. Where had he put it? Think, think, think! Where? He had used it as a bookmark (an unfortunate habit of his), but which book?

A novel with a pale cover caught his eye. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ by J. R. R. Tolkien—that was the book! Triumphantly, he snatched it up from where it lay on the floor. It automatically opened to a page, and he seized the envelope and the three letters that he had used as placeholders, shoving them into his pocket as he rushed down the stairs, taking the steps two at a time. He crashed into his father, who had just been about to check up on him, and they both tumbled to the floor.

"Sorry," Remus said, a little out of breath as he picked himself up off the ground. His father did the same and led Remus into the living room.

"No problem. We're traveling by Floo powder," his father explained, gesturing to the lit fireplace. "Here you go," he added, passing a Ziploc bag over to Remus. Remus took a small pinch of the glittering powder from the container, and his father placed it back on top of the mantelpiece. "Now, I'll go first to make sure nothing's wrong. But remember—"

"Speak clearly, close my eyes—Dad, I _remember_."

His father grinned. "See you on the other side, son," and he threw the powder into the fireplace. Instantly, green flames shot up from the grate. His father stepped into the fire, said, "Diagon Alley!" and disappeared in a whooshing blaze.

Remus was just about to follow when he heard his name being called. Not surprised, he turned.

His mother was leaning against a door casing. "Stay close to your father, all right?"

"Yeah, Mum. I promise." He gave her a reassuring smile. "Don't worry about me. See you soon!" Turning back, he tossed the powder over the grate and stepped gingerly through the flames. They licked at him warmly, but he didn't feel any pain. Opening his mouth, he breathed, "Diagon Alley," tucked in his elbows, determinedly shut his eyes, and braced himself for the ride.

Having traveled by Floo powder before, Remus knew by now exactly what to expect. A slow start, a slow spin, not unlike the graceful twirl of a leaf as it soars through the air. But he swallowed the lump in his throat as the spinning abruptly accelerated—it was as if he'd been caught in a violent whirlwind—his nostrils and throat burned as ash and soot made their way into his orifices—he tried to keep his lunch down—another swallow and the taste of vomit in the back of his throat—spinning, spinning, spinning and—

—blessed stillness. He nearly lost his balance and had to prop himself up against the wall of the fireplace for an instant. Opening his eyes, the shadows of green flames danced in his mind, twisting and flickering and wavering and quivering over a black backdrop as the world darkened. Breathe, he told himself, just breathe. Strong arms reached in and drew him out. He followed them blindly, trusting that they were his father's.

And they were. When the dizziness had faded, Remus saw that his father was watching him with something akin to worry in his eyes. They were standing in a dimly lit yet spacious room with no windows. It was hideously warm though and a haze of smoke hovered above the wooden floor; Remus soon figured out why when he noticed the several fireplaces that lined the walls. Occasionally, green flames would leap up, and a witch or a wizard would march out, brush off his or her robes, and then proceed through an open door at the opposite end of the chamber.

"Remus?" his father said. "Been a long time since you've used the Floo Network, eh?"

Remus managed a nod and coughed. He swore he saw a dark cloud of soot emerge from his mouth. "Yeah. Where are we?"

"One of the more useful rooms in the Leaky Cauldron."

Ah, so they were in the Leaky Cauldron. "But don't we usually use one of the grates directly in Diagon Alley?"

"Yes," his father said grimly, "but with the war going on, the Ministry's closed them all down—said we were to only use the ones here, because it's easier to monitor—also made sure we couldn't Apparate into Diagon Alley—have to go through here too—expect this decree to be overturned sometime later—it's outrageous…"

"Oh."

"Here." His father took a moment to brush off some clinging stains, and then said: "You have your list?"

"Right here." Remus extricated the crumpled letters from his pocket.

"Good, keep them for now. Come with me," and with that, they exited the room and entered a noisy and crowded area with a bar and tables. Witches and wizards pressed against him from all sides, and Remus felt stifled and more than a little helpless in the sea of black robes. Add to that the bad lighting, and he might as well have been blind. His father reached for his hand and tugged him towards the wall, where it was less cramped.

"Maris, fancy seeing you here! A drink?" Peeking between the bodies, Remus saw that the voice had come from the bald bartender behind the bar. He seemed to be missing a few teeth, and some wrinkles were etched lightly across his face.

"Not now, Tom!" his father replied. "Buying supplies for my son!"

"Going to Hogwarts this year, I presume?" Tom said, peering down at Remus with curiosity.

"Yes, he is. But we really must be going or we'll be here 'till the end of the day—if you'll excuse us…" His father gave Tom a bow of the head and dragged Remus towards the back of the pub where there was a line leading out of a door that opened up into a small, walled courtyard. Had it not been for the amount of wizards and witches trying to get into Diagon Alley via this passage, Remus supposed that the courtyard would have been completely deserted excepting a trashcan, a few weeds that poked up through the cement, and some rats. However, as it was, it was almost as packed as the interior of the Leaky Cauldron with some people standing in puddles left over by the rain yesterday.

Normally, one would have to tap a brick somewhere above the trashcan a certain number of times to gain access to the magical street, but today, the gateway to Diagon Alley was already open. And normally, there weren't two wizards flanking the entrance scrutinizing everyone who passed through.

"Roll up your left sleeves, roll them up," one of the wizards was saying loudly. "No, not your right, your _left_—that arm—_your_ left, not mine—"

"Aurors—that is, Dark Wizard catchers—checking for the Dark Mark," his father said wryly, "though what kind of Dark wizard would openly walk into here, I don't know. The Ministry's getting too paranoid for its own good."

When their turn came, they lifted up their left sleeves and, once cleared (which took some time because one of the wizards was eyeing Remus distrustfully), were ushered hastily through the arched portal onto the famed street of Diagon Alley.

The last time Remus had come here had been a couple months ago. Knowing that Remus was quite prone to becoming bored, his father sporadically took him to Gringotts Wizarding Bank, where he managed the security on a branch of vaults during the day. It honestly was a tedious job, Remus thought, though he had never voiced his opinion to his father. While he accompanied his father on these "trips", he hadn't been allowed to wander around much outside of Gringotts, so he embraced the relative freedom he had now.

Witches and wizards, along with little children, walked through the cobbled street, dodging between strangers as they made their way towards the various shops and cafés that lined the road. There was an atmosphere of business here; he saw coins exchange hands, heard the clink of metal on rock as a nearby witch dropped a silver Sickle. Vendors called out the prices of their wares ("Enchanted candles! You'll never run out! Only fifteen Sickles a pack!") and haggled furiously with customers over supposedly high-priced items. He even glimpsed a young boy stealing into his mother's purse and coming out with a handful of Knuts and Sickles, after which the boy ran off out of sight in the direction of Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour. And lording over all the buildings was the snowy white shape of Gringotts Wizarding Bank.

"So, what's first on the list, Remus?"

"Er—" Remus unfolded the sheaf of parchment. "It says I need to get three sets of plain black work robes, a plain black pointed hat, a pair of protective gloves made of dragon hide or something similar, and a black winter cloak with silver fastenings. And then after that, I'll need my books and wand and stuff."

He handed the list to his father, who looked over it critically and then pocketed it, giving Remus a bag of money. "Take that; you'll need it at Hogwarts. And go get fitted at Madam Malkin's. I'll buy some of your things while I'm waiting," and Remus set off for Madam Malkin's Robes for All Occasions alone, where he was measured and fitted by a thickset witch in lilac robes predictably named Madam Malkin. Remus supposed that she would have looked cheerier had she been less busy; she was fitting no less than five students at the same time, and kept saying under her breath that she would curse her assistant when she next saw him.

"Rubbish! Stuck in St. Mungo's on a day like this! What was he thinking? I'll make him wish…" But Remus never found out what she would make him wish, because Madam Malkin stated that he was done. He quickly paid her and stumbled out of the shop with an armful of clothing, slightly thankful for the fact that he hadn't heard Madam Malkin finish her sentence. St. Mungo's Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries was just that—a wizarding hospital—and Remus supposed that anything worse than being stuck in the hospital would be, well, quite nasty.

His father was waiting outside Madam Malkin's with a cauldron, which was already full with a set of brass scales, a telescope, glass phials, and some jarred potions ingredients. Dumping his robes into the cauldron along with the rest of his supplies, Remus and his father stopped by Flourish and Blotts for his course books and Scribbulus Everchanging Inks for his quills, parchment, and ink before heading for the last store.

Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands since 382 B.C., read a dusty sign hanging above the shabby doorway. Remus caught himself wondering whether or not the claim made by the sign was true; surely 382 B.C. was way too early?

Entering the shop, it was almost as if someone had plunged the world into darkness. Remus blinked, attempting to adjust his eyes to the low lighting while he listened to a miniature bell going off somewhere in the back. The tinkling sound, however, soon faded away into a thick silence, and he looked around nervously as defined shapes slowly came into view.

The shop was certainly a tiny shop. Though it was largely empty, the hundreds upon hundreds of thin boxes piled neatly up against the walls all the way up to the ceiling gave it a cluttered feel. Remus hugged himself, suddenly aware of a cold draft of air that flowed through the building, and shivered. What if all those boxes should fall? Even wands without an owner could cause quite a heavy bit of damage, he knew.

Abruptly, though, he was jolted out of his thoughts by an old man who emerged from behind a counter. "Good afternoon," Mr. Ollivander said, "and you'll be"—he peered at Remus's father—"Maris Lupin's son! That wand—ten inches, made of alder with a phoenix feather for a core, was it?"

His father smiled. "Haven't lost that good memory yet, have you?"

"Hopefully never will. Wand arm, Mr. Lupin?" he addressed Remus.

"Oh—right hand."

"Good, good. Stick it out—" A tape measure leapt up to take measurements of his arm while Mr. Ollivander shuffled to the back of the shop, explaining how no two Ollivander wands were the same and how each wand contained a different core. After examining a variety of boxes, the old man returned to the front with a stack in his frail arms, which he set on the counter. The tape measure slumped to the ground, coiling up like a snake.

"Give this one a try. Nine inches, hazel, dragon heartstring," he said, opening a box and handing Remus a wand. But he immediately snatched the wand away as soon as Remus touched it. "No, no—not that one—this one, then. Twelve inches, rowan, phoenix feather."

As Remus waved it in the air, Mr. Ollivander once again retrieved the wand when nothing happened.

And so the heap of discarded boxes grew until Mr. Ollivander had to go fish for more wands in the back.

"Dad, what's he waiting for?" Remus whispered.

"Anything, really. Remember, it's the wand that chooses the wizard."

A sudden fear seized him. "But maybe it can tell that I'm a—"

"There won't be any of that sort of talk," his father said sternly, cutting him off.

Remus fell silent as Mr. Ollivander came back with another box. The wand chooses the wizard? It could probably tell that he was a werewolf. Anxiety and apprehension crept through him, accompanied by no miniscule amount of despair. He wasn't going after all, he'd be stuck at home doing who knows what all through the school year or he'd be going to a Muggle school…

"Try this one—birch and unicorn hair. Eleven-and-a-half inches. A bit rigid though still slightly resilient."

Remus took the wand wordlessly, resigned to his fate. But when he touched it, a fountain of power welled up from deep within him, and as he brandished it in the air, a brilliant flash of light exploded in the room, as bright as a million stars. Several seconds passed during which he found he could see nothing but white. Eventually, though, the brightness faded, leaving the room in darkness except for the purple and green dots that flitted across his vision.

"Wonderful, though I must say that was a bit intense," Mr. Ollivander said, blinking owlishly. As soon as he could apparently see again, he tugged the wand out of Remus's hand, wrapped it in brown paper, boxed it up, and set it on the countertop.

"There you have it. Seven Galleons," he said, and Remus dug the money out of his bag, placing seven gold coins on the countertop. Mr. Ollivander scooped them up and handed the box to Remus before politely showing them out of his shop.

As they made their way down the street back towards the Leaky Cauldron, his father patted him on the back.

"See? No worries."

"Yeah," Remus mumbled, holding onto the box in his hands as if his life depended on it. The word "Ollivanders" was written on the cover in fancy gold letters, and a picture of a wand shooting out red sparks underlined the word.

Remus was not at all surprised to see that the two wizards who had been guarding the portal earlier had been replaced by two others when they finally reached the brick archway—it _had_ grown late. This time, though, he did not have to endure penetrating glares; the cauldron full of school supplies seemed to clear him of any suspicion, and, one of the Aurors even gave him an encouraging smile. He smiled feebly back.

But when they reached the room with the fireplaces, a sense of unease overcame him. The hairs on the back of his neck stood up and he moved closer to his father, still clutching the box tightly.

Only when he had begun to spin in the fireplace did he realize the source of his discomfort. A lanky man was staring at him and his father from the corner of the room, half-hidden in the shadows.

He swallowed, and then the tornado of green fire swept him away.


End file.
